Weeks ago I collided with something.

I’m not sure what it was.

I hadn’t even noticed

Until I saw the telltale trail.

The signs of a wound.

I checked the obvious places for the origin.

Trying to recollect the sharp object or a moment of pain.

Nothing came to mind.

Was it haste that made me dull?

Or, perhaps familiarity to the pain?

Eventually, I found the spot.

But I never found the source.

Today, I noticed the ragged edges have rounded.

The surface is closing in.

A miracle that we can regenerate.

Yet, I know it won’t be quite the same.

Healing is a humble, quiet artisan angel.

Diligent craftsman, she works while we’re not looking.

Doesn't even ask if she's allowed.

Stitch-by-stitch. Day-by-day.

But even Healing with all her skill and talent

Can’t put it back quite the way it was.

She gives us just enough promise of progress so that we can move forward.

For what option remains other than Hope that

We will be able to be knit back together?

With tender reverence, Healing is set in-motion as if by magic.

And perhaps our scars make it clear we are stronger than before

in our Knowing

both of what tried to break us


the irrepressible miracles within us.



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